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VERSES 


" Mrs E'/YMoh 


1 


Written in Paris by various 
members of a group of 
“ INTELLECTUALS ” 



CLEVELAND, OHIO 
MCMI 


thf library or 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Receiveo 

JUN. 22 1901 



✓ / jf 3 6 


COPY A. 


Copyright 

Joseph Leon Gobeille 
1901 



Foreword 



















XIII 



\) 


FOREWORD 


HESE stanzas, rescued from an 
interesting scrap-book hidden 
away in the depths of a rare 
and unique collection, were 
culled from the fancies of two 
coteries in Paris, in each of 
which the compiler of this 
little volume was ever a welcome unit. 

The first, which we might call the “Intellect- 
uals,” counted amongst their number: Charles 
Sibleigh, Blanche Roosevelt, William Theodore 
Peters, Count Eugen de Vaure, Col. Emile Gareau 
and Charlton Andrews. 

The second coterie we will name the “ Mili- 
taire.” Many of this group are now but bright 
shadows on a never-to-be-forgotten past, and this 
foreword is written with halting pen and moistened 
eyes as memory recalls those brave and light- 
some ones : Beatrice Sylvie, like one other, 
“opened for herself the Gates of Paradise}” Jose 
Marti and Prevost-Borden, martyrs, food for war, 
gave up their lives — one in Cuba, the other in 
South Africa j Count Otho Zahm, Colonel in the 



XV 


Swiss Guards, a very devil with the sword, courted 
by men and women, covered with decorations, 
ending his days a political prisoner in the mines of 
Siberia ; the little, black Cleo d’Alme, the “Angel 
of the Studios,” back in Corsica, roaming her 
rocky home or racing barefoot along the coral sands. 

Totally at variance on every serious question, 
these two groups of unusual people were in perfect 
harmony in the idle hours when they foregathered 
in the Cafe Procope, drinking their coffee or sipping 
a glass of absinthe around the table at which Marat 
and Danton played that celebrated game of chess 
which was to decide whether or not there was to be 
a French Revolution, and facing Thomas’s great 
picture commemorating that dramatic check-mate. 

It is characteristic of these careless Bohemians — 
and where, save in Paris, does one find the true 
Bohemian ? — that most of the choice spirits amongst 
them write verse, some that is good, much that is 
delightfully bad, but all charmingly conceived to 
express the thought in mind, to gild the passing 
hour, to forge the amber shaft of light that decks 
the commonplace of existence. 

One might stumble into this true Bohemia and 
never suspect that those well-groomed, courteous 
cosmopolitans who, if not so famous as the men in 


» 


XVI 


whose seats they sit, are yet the creditable inheritors 
of the wit, wisdom and wickedness of the brilliant 
minds which have rung down through the years 
from Voltaire to Verlaine. 

And we who knew these gay spirits treasure the 
wayward scraps penned in an erratic, fleeting hour, 
and our hearts lighten as we read the original lines 
which even the poverty of the English language can- 
not dull, and, in memory of those brighter, lighter 
days, repeat the tender creed of one who elected 
to leave this life before all her fond illusions were 
sunken in darkness : 

“Thou askest what my riches are, 

And quick I answer thee : 

* The summer night, the burning star, 

The blushing rose and odors free. 

All these are what my riches are j 

They speak of love and thee ! ’ ” 



XVII 




VERSES 


\ 


VANUM EST VOBIS 

It is in vain ye rise before the light 

To lengthen sorrow and increase your pain, 
Since by your toil ye find nor hope nor gain, 

And in no whit the life more benedight. 

And if ye seek to read the reason why, 

To know the wherefore of this toil unblest, 
This endless longing and this vague unrest, 

Will ye not say, before the daylight die, 

It is in vain ? 

Ho ! all ye wise ones ! let who will deride, 

Why should ye by the problem be perplexed ? 
Why by the ends of destiny be vexed ? 

Strive, that each day your wants may be supplied j 
If more ye earn than means to strive the next, 

It is in vain. 


3 


MY RICHES 

Thou askest what my riches are, 

And quick I answer thee : 

“The summer night, the burning star, 

The blushing rose and odors free $ 

All these are what my riches are, 

They speak of love and thee.” 

At morn when o’er the eastern skies, 

Dear, this I tell to thee — 

“ Aurora’s beams recall thine eyes ; 

Can greater riches be ? 

Thy glowing cheek, her rarest dyes, 

All this is wealth to me.” 

But know, Oh love, that gold doth pall 
And age and care come on ; 

And who for gold hath bartered all, 

Without true hearts to lean upon, 

Will on her riches vainly call 

And beg that love she fears has gone. 

Thou asketh what my riches are. 

Once more I’ll answer thee — 

“ When all is fled, thy cherished gold, 

And with that dreams and friends untold j 

Still more, thy youth, thy heart grown old — 
My riches still, my love for thee.” 


4 


FANCIES 


The cowslip and the columbine 

Have mounted all their summer charms 
The moss rose is a lady fine — 

I know that she has coats-of-arms. 

The poppy by the crumbling wall 

Has dreamed away the precious hours. 
The gaudy tulip, slim and tall, 

Is but the gay soubrette of flowers. 


CYBELE ST. CYR 
(A Dancing Girl) 

Cybele St. Cyr, 

I call to you, 

From the gloom of gathering death, 

Where I, who have lost a lifetime, 

Beg lowly a little breath ; 

Cybele St. Cyr, 

I call to you, 

In the shadow of death I stand. 

No journey of joy for us now, Love, 

The journey we take is of fear, Love, 
Hand in hand. 

Cybele St. Cyr, 

I call to you, 

You will rule it royal down there, 

For Satan’s self would lust for you, 

Did you dance with bosom bare. 

Cybele St. Cyr, 

I call to you, 

In the shadow of death I stand. 

No journey of joy for us now, Love, 

The journey we take is of fear, Love, 

Hand in hand. 

Cybele St. Cyr, 

I call to you, 

To come with your blood-red mouth, 
Wherever you be, on land or sea, 

North, west, or east or south j 
Cybele St. Cyr, 

I command you 
To come, for I love you well, 

You’ve banned me from life-everlasting, 
Come and make me your bond-slave in hell. 


6 


MY LOVES 


O, how I love fair maids ! I know ’tis wrong 
To love so many, yet I can’t confine 
My heart to one, when twenty are divine! 

And should I wish to celebrate in song 
One houri’s beauty, then a thousand throng 
And crowd with varied glories all my line. 

If Hebe’s eyes are dark, Irene’s shine! 

If Elsa’s hair is fair then Kate’s Is long. 

And so with Gladys, it is much the same, 

Her grace would cause a man his soul to lose, 
While Stella’s charms would make an angel fall. 
These burn within my heart with equal flame, 

For long ago I lost all power to choose, 

And now I grieve I cannot wed them all. 


7 


TO OMAR KHAYYAM 


Ah, Omar ! Thy Philosophy with Gold 
Embosses Pessimism’s hateful Mould 

Till I, who fain would fling it from me far, 

Am half unto its simple Sweetness sold. 

Yet now glad Youth and Boundless Hope enthrall 
And still repulse black Doubt’s descending Pall. 

— And yet * Life flies.’ — Shall vanisht Hopes effect 
That I to fleeting Time impute my Fall ? 

****** 

‘ Dead Yesterday ’ is past : its Joy and Sorrow 
Gone whence at first it came — whence all must borrow 
That which Life was, and is. Why, let us hope 
Our Loan increast makes sweet ‘ unborn Tomorrow. ’ 


THE MANDOLIN 


Here as I lie, sigh after sigh 
Wells from my heart full up, 

And I can tell the reason why 
I drink from sorrow’s cup. 

’Tis the sound of a plaintive mandolin, 
Thrummed in the dim old street, 

That comes to my heart and makes it start 
And almost stops its beat. 

Ah, what mem’ries that music brings! 

What strange wild words the singer sings! 

Ah God, is music love with wings? 

Then hail, oh mandolin! 


9 


A WINTER EVENING 


When summer leaves, untimely dead, 

Are buried underneath the snow ; 

When robin’s waistcoat’s buttoned tight, 
And wintry winds unkindly blow ; 

When twilight’s veil of smoky blue 
Enshrouds the landscape far and wide, 

Sit down before the hearth and spend 
The sweet, sad hour of eventide. 

Sweet, for a thought, a thought that clings, 
After we proved the dream untrue, 

(Though love is blind, yet love has wings), 
Sad for one loss, the loss of you. 

The day was busy, it is done ; 

How tedious these dull days seem! 

Leave us alone a little while 

To dream again that darling dream. 

We know the bitter, stinging cold 
Hid in the feathery drifts outside ; 

Come, let us warm our frozen hands 
Here, by the flame at eventide. 


IO 


THE SEA 


The sea hath wearied of its play, and thrown 
The shells it toyed with on the fretted shore j 
At twilight, while the white gulls wheel and soar, 
I linger in the eventide alone, 

And hearken how the ceaseless waves bemoan 
The gold that lies on that enchanted floor, 

And o’er the dead the depths may ne’er restore 
I hear the requiem that the winds intone. 

O wondrous sea! why canst thou ne’er be still ? 
Why must thy waters ever ebb and flow ? 

Hast thou some secret hidden in thy breast ? 

Or, ruled by some inexorable will, 

Thy troubled tides must ever come and go, 

Since, like my soul, thou never canst find rest ? 


I 1 


FARTING AND MEETING 


If I must leave thee, sweetheart, let it be 

When saddened twilight sinks to dismal night, 
When wailing winds bemoan the sighing flight 
Of day’s dead spirit in a rhapsody 
Pitched shrill and hoarse in melancholy key. 

I can not bear that Nature’s heart be light, 

Or Earth rejoice, or twinkling stars shine bright, 
While thy dear heart and mine weep wretchedly. 
But when I may return and clasp again 

Thy loving heart to mine, let Earth be clad 
In gala dress of green, or yet of white, — 

Let love-life all the world with flowers enchain, 

Or jeweled ermine sparkle gleaming-glad, 

While Nature shares our rapturous delight. 


AUBADE POUR MANDOLINE 


Bergere au col enrubanne 
Tout est chez vous, ma chere, orne 
De grace mievre. 

II vous plut un jour d’apaiser 
Mes douleurs par un long baiser 
De votre levre. 

Depuis vous avez contente 
Par un exces de charite 
D’ailleurs louable, 

Bien des bergers dont la douceur 
Avait fort touche votre coeur 
Si charitable. 

Mais aujourd’hui que fleurit mai, 

Le mois ou vous m’avez aime, 

Ma folle amante, 

Bergere au col enrubanne, 

Au baton d’or de soie orne, 

Douce Aramanthe. 

Ecoutez ma chanson d’amour! 

Le feu de votre baiser court 
En tout mon etre $ 

Belle, a mes accents eplores, 
Montrez vos jolis yeux, ouvrez 
Votre fenetre! 




LOVE LAY ASLEEP 


Love lay asleep beneath the almond trees 

When first the Springtime came into the land j 
His golden bow had fallen from his hand, 

His locks, unbound, were toyed with by the breeze 
Which, ever and anon, as if to seize 

His senses quite, his warm cheek gently fanned, 
That he no more might Slumber’s power withstand : 
Lulled by the ceaseless murmur of the bees, 

Love lay asleep. 

O maiden fair! who may Love’s power withstand ? 

Is it so strange the God should dare to seize 
A maiden’s heart ? That day you placed your hand 
In mine, when Springtime came into the land, 

Did nothing tell you that beneath the trees 

Love lay asleep ? 


H 

i 




SUMMER DREAMS 


When fading day reveals the Evening Star, 
Dream of the harvest moon 
In mellow radiance rising in the East. 

In the hush of night, 

Dream of hearing 

The lap of wave upon the shore. 

At break of day, 

Dream of the robin’s song. 


*5 


L’AUTOMNE 


Errant par les champs et par les bois, j’ai rencon- 
tre une belle nymphe sur mon chemin. * * * Les 
epaules nues avaient ete brunies par le jour, et ses 
fauves cheveux flottaient derriere elle comme les 
nuages quand le soleil se couche. * * * Elle avait 
le don que possedait Midas, le roi Midas et tout ce 
qu’elle touchait se changeait en or, et des ors et 
des bruns flamboyaient partout ou elle posait son 
pied. 

De sa main gauche elle tenait une faucille ; son 
bras droit entourait une gerbe de ble mur : O com- 
bien rouges etaient les pavots qui se cachent entre 
les epis ! 

****** 

Je l’ai vue une fois que le soleil mourait, et des 
merveilleuses tapisseries etaient tendues dansl’Ouest. 
Elle portait dans ses bras des raisins lourds, des 
raisins prets a s’ouvrir au baiser du soleil : ses levres 
etaient rougies par le sang de la vigne. 

* * * * * * 


16 


Je l’ai vue encore sous des cieux plus gris. Le 
vent gemissait dans les arbres noires : des chauve — 
souris voltigeaient dans le soir comme des pensees 
douloureuses. 

Triste etait sa figure : on eut dit qu’elle portait 
dans son coeur le triste secret de l’Univers. * * * 

O! pale Automne ! nos ames aussi sout attris- 
tees. * * * 

Toutes les roses sont fletries et effeuillees sur leurs 
tiges, et nous n’en avons cueilli aucune. 

Helas ! 


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